Skogarhunang
by MizJoely
Summary: Molly is tending her bees when a handsome Viking carries her off - but to what fate? A Viking Sherlolly AU.
1. Raided

_A belated tattoo!lock/Viking AU birthday fic for mollyandherjumper over on tumblr. Sorry this took me so long, hope you like it!_

 _Notes: The title (Skógarhunang) translates to "Wild Honey". Also, I've decided to only modify one person's name for this story and pretend that the modern versions would have been exactly the same in the year AD 950 as they are now. I hope that doesn't detract from the fun. :)_

* * *

She was tending to her bees when it happened; one minute she was carefully removing a dripping honeycomb from the hive of bees she'd put into a smoke-induced stupor, and the next a large hand had clamped itself over the lower part of her face, effectively smothering her cry of alarm. As she fought to free herself, kicking backwards and slinging the honeycomb in the direction of her attacker's face (and missing wildly, she would later discover, much to her chagrin), a second hand and the tattoo-covered arm to which it was attached clamped onto her body, pulling her snug to the lean, hard form of the man who'd accosted her.

Struggle though she tried, Molly couldn't free herself from the stranger's grip. She knew it wasn't one of the villagers or even a lad from one of the nearby freeholds; none of them would dare, and besides, intricate series of dark blue tattoos covering the bare arm were done in Nordic symbols she recognized from her father's lessons.

A Viking. She was being dragged – carried now, as easily as if she were a child – into the woods by a Viking. Still she struggled, kicking as best she could with her skirts to hamper her, trying to free her arms from the iron grip that held her, all to no avail. In the end it made no difference; Molly of the Hooper clan was going wherever this barbarian raider was taking her.

Which, as it turned out (and much to her confusion) was only as far as the clearing where she normally gathered several of the healing herbs she dried and used when her father's breathing became labored. She'd expected her captor to double back to the coast, to drag her off to a life of slavery on some foreign shore, but all he did now was lower her to her feet, still holding her tightly against his body. She shivered a bit, heart in her throat as he leaned down to whisper harshly, his breath warm on her ear, "Scream and I'll slit your throat, do you understand me?"

She nodded, holding her breath as he released his grip on her face. She had only a moment to realize he'd spoken Gaelic rather than Norse before he released his tight hold on her body, only to take her wrist in one hand and adroitly spin her about to face him.

Molly looked up – and up – to gape at the man who'd taken her captive. The first thing she noticed was his eyes, the curious cat-like slant to them and the irises that seemed to shift between stormy blue and icy green as she stared at him. Then the rest of his features came into focus, and if she'd been breathless with fear before, now she was utterly entranced at the sight of the single most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on.

He was tall, towering over her petite form, and his full lips formed a perfect Cupid's bow that she longed to trace with her fingers. His head was topped by a mass of dark curls, somewhat longer in the front and shorter in the back in the Norse fashion, and his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut, defining his elegant face in a way that made her heart beat faster. And oh, he was young, surely not much older than she was; he was tall and muscular, but lean and hard, clad in muted shades of blue and brown, his bare arms – both of them – covered in the same intricate series of blue-inked tattoos that she'd noticed when he first grabbed her.

"Wh-what do you want with me?" she stammered as he simply stared at her. Her eyes moved from his tattoos – which traveled over his shoulders and disappeared under his tunic, causing her to wonder how much of his body was inked in this way – to look up at the tops of the trees as she belatedly realized that his presence meant trouble for more than just her. She neither saw nor smelled any smoke, nor did she hear anything other than the quiet birdsong and rustling of the wind, no matter how she strained her ears, but her heart beat hard in her chest at the thought of her family and fellow villagers falling to harm.

"This isn't a raid, I'm part of a small scouting party. Your village isn't worth our time, trust me."

The brutal honesty of his words stung even as she felt a wave of relief wash over her. She was still personally in danger – that short sword at his hip wasn't for show! – but at least she didn't have to worry about anyone else, her best friend Mary or her father or any of the others. Either the relief or the hurt pride caused her to say, "Then what are you scouting for? Mushrooms?"

"Bees, actually," he replied – then did a double-take as he realized she'd spoken in Norse. "Who taught you our tongue?" he demanded, leaning his head down to study her face more closely. "There's none of our blood in you, and no signs that anyone in your village has been farther than the market town down the coast." He frowned, then lifted her hands and examined her fingers. "Ink stains." His gaze turned incredulous as he met her eyes. "You can write?"

"And read," she said, tugging her hands free of his grip – but being careful to make no other moves, seeing the tension in his shoulders as his gaze flicked over her, the way his hand moved automatically to hover over the hilt of his sword. "My father taught me."

"How to read and write or how to speak my language?" the handsome stranger demanded.

"Both, all three. And how to do my sums as well," Molly added tartly. She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a challenging stare. "Which of those can you do, besides speaking Norse?"

"I speak seven languages and can read in four of them," he replied, waving a hand dismissively. "My mother's a scholar, Frankish, taken captive and sold to my father for a good price when she was about your age." He gave her a wolfish grin, and Molly felt her mouth go dry at the sight as her heart began to pound in her chest once again. "Luckily for both of them – and for my brothers and I – they managed to fall in love in spite of what I've been told was a rather rocky first meeting."

"I'm sure," Molly said faintly. She swallowed and clutched at her upper arms. "Are you – is that what you're going to do to me? S-sell me into slavery?" The stutter was back, but she couldn't help it; she'd allowed herself to be distracted by the stranger's ethereal good looks and unexpected erudition, but her situation was still precarious at best. Then her brain caught up with the answer he'd given to her first – no, her second – question and she found herself once again staring at him. "Wait, did you say you were scouting for…bees?"

He nodded impatiently. "Yes, bees, studying different ways people keep them. No, not selling you into slavery…" His lips curved in a wicked smile as he deliberately looked her up and down. "Unless that's something you'd like?"

Goosebumps erupted on her flesh at the honest interest in his eyes; no one had ever looked at her like that before, not here, not in the market town he'd correctly deduced as being the farthest she'd ever traveled from home, not from any of the outlying farms or smaller villages nearby. She was considered too odd, too awkward and gawky, not pretty enough to catch anyone's eye. But somehow she'd caught this handsome barbarian's eye, and even if it was only for her bees…but no. Not with the way he was maintaining eye contact. Not with the simmering heat that made her knees weak with an emotion very different to fear.

For the first time in her short life, Molly understood what the other girls whispered about after meeting their sweethearts in the haylofts or in secluded forest glens just like this one. Understood it, and wanted it with a passion that startled her. Without thinking about consequences, she lunged forward, grabbed the tall young man by the shoulders, and drew him down for a clumsy, but thoroughly heated, kiss.


	2. Seduced

_A/N: Here be smut, be warned!_

Whatever Sherlock son of Svartalf had expected from this day, being kissed by the girl he'd (temporarily) kidnapped wasn't it. Enjoying the kiss was even more unexpected, but then, he'd always been attracted to women with brains. He could blame his mother for that; seeing how much she and his father loved one another, inheriting her love of scholarship and learning, it was inevitable that he'd fall for someone very much like the girl he was now holding in his arms (wait, when had that happened?) and exchanging urgent kisses with.

Distractedly, he thought about his friend Johann; would the older man wait with the boat as he'd promised if Sherlock didn't appear at the appointed time, or would he come storming into the village in search of him? Didn't matter, Sherlock decided as he molded the girl's body closer to his and ran one hand down to squeeze her backside. Johann could – and would! – have to wait. As would questions about the girl's beekeeping habits. Right now the only thing he wanted to know was exactly how far beyond kissing she was willing to let him take her…and, perhaps… "What's your name?" he growled as he pulled his mouth away from hers.

"Molly," she replied, rather breathlessly, her lips shiny and swollen from his kisses. She'd opened her mouth to his when he ran his tongue over her lips and although she'd gasped and held tighter to his shoulders, she'd allowed the intimate contact without protest. A good sign.

"Sherlock," he said, offering his own name in spite of the inner voice of his mind (sounding suspiciously like his elder brother Mycroft) warning him not to tell her anything that could endanger him. Hah, as if a slip of girl could do anything to endanger a Viking warrior! As if anyone in her humble village could do much either, singly or combined, he thought smugly.

His smugness vanished as he felt her tugging at his sword-belt; when had her hands moved from his shoulders, and why hadn't he noticed? Oh yes, of course; because she was kissing him again and his mouth was moving against hers without consulting his brain. Considering that all the blood in his body had rushed southward some time ago, he shouldn't have been surprised. He gave up trying to think entirely when she traced one small hand over the heated bulge in his trousers, too busy drinking in her avid, yet somewhat nervous, expression as her eyes darted up to meet his.

Whatever she saw there must have encouraged her; she resumed her timid explorations of his body, becoming bolder as he finished undoing his sword-belt and pulled his tunic over his head. He'd foregone the leather armor he usually wore, opting for stealth and speed over protection he was confident he wouldn't need, and was extremely glad he'd done so. Especially when he saw how interested she was in not only his body but in the tribal markings he'd chosen to decorate said body. She reached out and traced delicate fingers over the whorls and swirls, lips moving as she deciphered some of the runes he chosen to represent his personal beliefs. More proof that the girl was far better educated than most Gaels of her station. It was somewhat disconcerting to hear her speaking the words "Unanswered questions are more dangerous than any warrior" in her native tongue…disconcerting and yet, very, very arousing.

As he claimed her lips for another kiss, he reflected on how one girl could so easily cause him to overthrow his usual disdain for sex, but there was something about her – an only child with a dead mother and an unwell father, used to faring for herself, well-educated and intelligent for a female Briton, not to mention a careful and responsible bee-keeper – that piqued more than his intellectual curiosity.

In spite of her current boldness with him, her actual inexperience at seduction was obvious from the combination of enthusiasm and clumsiness with which she was currently exploring his body. Although he was hardly the master of the romantic arts that Johann was, he was no shrinking virgin, either. A lovely young thrall-turned-shield-maiden named Sally had taken care of that when he was barely fourteen, and he'd had more than a few other encounters since then.

This, however, would be his first time doing the deflowering, not that he'd ever admit such a thing to any of his fellow Vikings. A man had a reputation to protect, after all. Not that he was interested in getting between the legs of an unwilling maiden, of course, but that wasn't anything he needed to worry about today. The girl – Molly – tiptoed up and kissed him again; with a harsh growl he pulled her closer, then spun her around so she was pressed up against the sturdy trunk of the nearest tree. Her hands were in his hair, her soft breasts pressed against his bare chest, and the few layers of clothing between them nothing but an impediment to be removed.

She caught on to what he was attempting very quickly, in spite of the way she was responding so prettily to his kisses; soon there was nothing between them but skin, and Sherlock took the time to appreciate the sight of her nude form before tugging her down to lie next to him on his outspread cloak. Her flesh was pale but not unhealthy, and there was a spattering of _freknur*_ on her nose and neck that just begged for his attention. He saw an equally appreciative gleam in her eyes as she took in the sight of his erection, and proudly stroked a hand over it just to watch her eyes widen and hear her suck in a breath, her pink little mouth rounding in an 'O' that gave him some very lustful thoughts indeed.

He pressed his lips to her throat and covered her pert little breasts with his hands, kneading them softly and smiling against her skin as she whimpered and tugged at his hair. Her nipples were stiff from the cool air as much as his touch, and he soon bent his mouth to tug at each of the rosy nubs, moving his hands lower on her body until they settled on her hips. With his thumbs he stroked the soft flesh of her belly, wishing he could take his time but knowing that a leisurely exploration of one another's body's was far too dangerous. And although he reveled in taking risks, he knew the consequences for her, should they be caught in so compromising a position, would be far worse than any he might face. Especially since he was still confident that, even naked and vulnerable as he might appear, he would certainly be able to best anyone that stumbled across them.

Besides, it would sour the mood if he were forced to kill someone she knew.

And so, with regret, he picked up the pace, rolling her onto her back and partially covering her with his body, resting his prick against the warmth of her sex, kissing her over and over again as he reached between her legs and stroked her slit. Ah, she was already so wet, more than ready for him! Although he longed to taste her, instead he had to satisfy himself with long, deep kisses. He gave a startled – but pleased – grunt when he felt one small hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, move down to brush teasingly against his prick, her surprisingly strong fingers grasping him, silently urging him closer as she widened her legs. "Please," she begged, gazing up at him from eyes that were now more black than brown as her pupils revealed her desire for him. " _Grá a dhéanamh liom._ "**

Ah, when a woman said such lovely things, how could he refuse? He allowed her to help guide his prick so that the head entered her slick warmth, then gently tugged her hand free, kissing the palm before setting in back on his shoulder. "This will burn a bit, but what comes after should more than make up for it," he warned and promised her at the same time.

"I'm ready," she assured him, but he felt her grip on his tattoo-covered shoulders tighten a bit.

He lifted on leg so that it was bent at the knee, giving him more room and widening her opening just a bit, then with one thrust pushed his way deep inside her.

 **oOo**

Molly gave a soft cry as she felt the promised burn as his prick pushed into her, passing the barrier of her maidenhead with less pain than others had so darkly warned her to expect. However, she did have to consciously relax her hands as she felt her nails digging into Sherlock's well-formed – and beautifully inked – shoulders. She appreciated the way he paused after he'd fully seated himself inside her, giving her time to get used to the feeling of fullness, and the stretch of her cunt around his prick. When she was ready she nodded, keeping her eyes locked on his blue-green orbs as he began to move again, slowly easing himself in and partially back out of her, while she clumsily attempted to meet those movements with her own hips.

It wasn't long before they found a rhythm that worked for them both, and Molly slowly felt the rising tide of pleasure that signaled the onset of what might be an orgasm. She held her breath in anticipation of the much-sought-after delight, the one so few of her female friends claimed to have experienced, at least not without using their own hands!

With that in mind, she shyly pried the fingers of her right hand away from Sherlock's shoulder, gliding it down his arm and then his hip, nibbling at her lower lip as she contemplated what she was about to do. Would he feel she was insulting his manhood or abilities as a lover if she chose to take the whispered advice of her more experienced friends? Only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, she eased her hand between their joined bodies, slipping her finger down to the hidden pearl that all women possessed, but so few seemed to gain true pleasure from.

She heard Sherlock gasp and then groan, lifting his body away so that her hand had enough room to reach its goal. He turned his head and whispered, his mouth almost touching her ear, "Yes, do it, Molly, touch yourself. If we had more time, I promise you, I'd show you so many ways a man can bring a woman pleasure."

She was sure the overwhelming sensation that washed over her just then was as much due to his words as to the uncertain touch of her thumb on her slippery flesh. She cried out as pleasure washed over her, drowning her in its intensity, her body moving insistently, nearly mindlessly as she shuddered and gasped and tried to catch her breath when the wave had crested. The drumming of her heart in her chest made her feel as if she'd just run from the beach to the forest, as she'd not done since putting up her hair on her fourteenth birthday.

Clearly Sherlock was nearing the same peak she'd just reached; she could feel his heart beating just as rapidly as hers, and his breath was coming harsh gasps as he rested on his elbows above her. He'd stopped moving at some point when she was no longer aware of anything but the sensations coursing through her own body, but as soon as their eyes met again he began thrusting his hips, pushing himself deeper inside her now-aching sex. Her grip on his shoulders tightened again and she grit her teeth, breathlessly waiting for him to join her in fulfillment.

She hadn't long to wait; within minutes he was gasping out her name, sweat dripping from his hairline as he rested his head in the crook of her neck. She automatically held him in her arms, running one hand down his back in soothing, sweeping motions as she felt his prick pulsing inside her. The burn subsided, but she suspected a soak in a hot tub of water would be in order once she returned home.

The thought of home, and her ailing father who patiently awaited her return, brought a gasp from her lips. With a hint of panic in her eyes, she stared at her new-made lover, who began moving from her body, his lips thinned in an expression of…what? Distaste? Anger? Or mere unhappiness at her own less-than-pleased expression? "N-no, it's not you," she stammered as he sat back on his heels, gazing down at her with eyes and face gone blank and unreadable. She scrambled to her knees, reaching out a placating hand and resting it just above his heart. "It's my father, I've left him alone all this time when I was only supposed to be gone an hour at most, he'll be worried…"

Sherlock's lips on hers silenced her, and she closed her eyes in gratitude that he understood what she was trying to say. "I'd ask you to come with me," he murmured when the kiss ended, "but I suspect you'd say no."

"My father needs me," Molly said simply, in response to the question that wasn't a question. Sherlock nodded, and she lowered her eyes, unable to continue to meet his gaze. Running away with a handsome young Viking was the stuff of fantasies, and sadly Molly had always been a very practical girl; she'd had to be, with her mother's early death in childbirth to a younger sister that hadn't survived two winters, and an ailing father who coughed up blood from his enfeebled lungs at an alarming rate. But oh, at least she'd always have this magical encounter to remember!

She startled a bit when Sherlock thrust a hand under her nose as she fussed with her simple leather belt, then blushed as she realized he was handing her a bit of cloth dampened with wine with which to clean herself. There wasn't much blood, but a great deal of their comingled fluids dribbling down her legs, and she murmured a quiet thank you as she self-consciously began wiping up the signs of their recent activities. So much for preserving her maidenhood for some potential future husband; however, that dream had already begun to fade, replaced by the prospect of lonely spinsterhood and a life of beekeeping. At least it would be a useful life she reflected as she finished dressing herself.

Sherlock was fully clothed now as well, and she smiled shyly at him, the spell of wild recklessness he'd brought out in her finally broken. "Well, good-bye," she said awkwardly. "I promise not to tell anyone…"

"Sherlock!" His name was shouted from the lips of a fair-haired stranger, shorter and stockier than Sherlock but clearly a Norseman as well – in fact, even more obviously a Norseman, with his shaggy blond locks and matching braided moustache. He was holding a shield and short-sword and dressed much like Sherlock, with blue eyes widened in surprise as he took in her presence. He let out a short curse that Molly blushed to hear, then turned his attention back to his comrade. "The idiots from the next village spotted the boat, we have to leave unless you want to fight your way through a mob of terrified farmers again!"

"Again?" Molly raised an eyebrow and stared at Sherlock, who merely shrugged and grinned at her, a devil-may-care grin that melted her heart. "Go," she said, making shooing motions. "I'll try to delay them as long as possible."

The expression in Sherlock's eyes was almost adoring as he grinned and swooped in for a swift kiss, nearly lifting her off her feet as he enveloped her in a fierce embrace. "Good-bye, Molly," he said. "I'll never forget you." Then he and the other man, who she heard him call 'Johann' were off and running, as swiftly and silently as deer, vanishing into the depths of the forest in a direction that would eventually bring them to the shore.

Molly tamed her hair as best she could with her fingers, swiftly replaiting it and smoothing her rumpled clothing into a semblance of neatness. Everyone who knew her knew of what they dubbed her 'eccentricities', including the way she still scrambled about the forest like a child as she searched for herbs and dragged in firewood for the modest home she and her father shared. As she heard the sound of running feet and excited murmurings from a large group of men, she drew in a deep breath and shouted.

Swiftly settling onto the bracken, she cradled her ankle in her hands and rocked back and forth, whimpering as if in pain. When the villagers and farmers burst into the clearing, she thanked God as loudly as she could, then spun a tale of being knocked to the ground by a large group of fierce Viking warriors, who'd headed in the exact opposite direction Johann and Sherlock had actually taken.

One man was left behind, tasked to help her limp back home, and as soon as he left her with her father she breathed out a silent prayer that Sherlock and Johann would make it safely away, undiscovered by the terrified but enthusiastic men chasing after them. Not out of fear for them, of course, but strictly out of concern that anyone else would be harmed.

After giving her worried father a similar story to what she'd told the Viking-hunters, he gave her a hard stare, head tilted to one side, but said nothing further. The only person she ever told the truth to, at least at first, was her dear friend Mary, whose eyes sparkled at the adventure her friend had shared with a handsome Viking lad.

* * *

 _(Yes, yes, "To Be Continued!)_

 _*In case you haven't guessed,_ freknur _is Old Norse for freckles!_

 _** This is an attempt at "make love to me" in Irish Gaelic. It's probably wrong since it's from Google Translate, but I tried!_

 _P.S. There miiight be a jollocky version of this chapter in the works as a bonus after the story is over. Just sayin'._


	3. Reunited

The coastline looked vaguely familiar, although Sherlock couldn't place it at first. As the headland came into view, however, his gut clenched as he finally recognized it: the small series of coastal villages he and Johann had scouted a year earlier, and discarded as unworthy of a raid. There was a Christian church serving the area, true, but the small collection of silver in its chests hadn't been worth taking when it was just the two of them, let alone as booty for an entire boatload of raiders.

Johann gave a startled murmur as he, too, recognized the headland. "Why are we here, Sherlock?" he asked in a low voice. "We told them there wasn't anything worth taking…" He fell silent as the answer to his own question clearly came to him. "Thralls. This is a slave raid." He swore angrily; neither man would have agreed to this journey had they realized either their destination or its true purpose. Slavery was a way of life, there was no way around that fact, but both men had been vocal in their insistence on not taking part of any slaving runs, both because of their personal beliefs and because their families no longer kept thralls, but rather kept servants.

So much for that; their chieftain clearly had decided it was time to force them to participate in this raid. Johann had disliked Magnussen before this; now, he thought he might actually hate the man. Sherlock certainly hadn't made his disdain a secret, but if he didn't lower his challenging gaze, he would find himself in a battle he might win…but wouldn't want to as it would mean shouldering responsibility for their clan. Something Johann knew he had no interest in doing. And if he made his unwillingness to lead known to the other warriors…no, it wouldn't end well.

Luckily for them both – because Johann of course would back his friend up even if he thought he was making an enormous mistake – Sherlock returned his attention to this weapons, although a scowl remained on his lips.

Johann wondered if he was more upset about the fact that they'd been tricked into going on a slaving run – or if he was thinking about the young girl he'd seduced the last time they'd come this way.

The young girl whose name was now inscribed in runes above Sherlock's heart. Oh, not her true name of course; but Johann knew the reason his friend had asked for the word 'Skógarhunang' to be inked on his flesh, although he'd said nothing of it. Sherlock would just deny it had anything to do with the maiden he'd lain with. And since the word meant 'wild honey' he could plausibly argue that it was more to do with his interests in beekeeping than with a mere slip of a girl.

But Johann knew better, and kept silent out of respect for his prickly friend's obsessive need for privacy. He and his brother Mycroft had a saying: that caring wasn't an advantage, but Johann had seen Sherlock's belief in that creed crumbling as the months had passed. He'd pried out the fact that his friend had asked Molly to come with them, and even confided that he thought he'd finally found a woman worthy of becoming his wife, which had shocked Johann into speechlessness at the time.

Now here they were, about to take part in a raid on her village that would end with her as a thrall unless he or Sherlock got to her first. Which, Johann decided grimly as they neared the part of the shore where they would beach their longboats, would never come to pass. He remembered the girl well enough, and Sherlock certainly had her image ingrained in his mind and heart; she lived on the outskirts of the village near the beehives she tended.

How difficult could it be?

 **oOo**

"No, I won't hide! I want to help!"

Mary gave her friend an exasperated look. "Molly, you can't! It's too dangerous! Besides, your father built the bolt-hole for a reason, you know he would want you to -"

"Fine!" Molly sighed; whenever Mary brought up her father she knew it was useless to continue arguing. He'd been dead less than six months, and for the first time Molly was glad of it; he would have hated to see his beloved home sacked and put to the torch but a group of Norsemen.

At least she could comfort herself with the fact that this raid surely had nothing to do with Sherlock; if he'd been lying to her, then the raid would have come far sooner. Still, as she descended the ladder at Mary's urging, holding her most precious possession close to her heart, she couldn't help but sigh with regret. For a while she'd entertained the fantasy that Sherlock would come back for her, unable to live without her, and carry her off to be with him.

However, in her heart she knew that she never would have left with him, at least not as long as her father still lived.

No matter how much she'd longed to do so even before she'd…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shouting, the clash of steel on steel, and her heart sped up in her chest. She looked upward, but the hidden trapdoor was closed. Seconds later she flinched as she heard the sound of the barred front door being thrown open; shortly after that Mary began shouting threats and Molly could just picture her fierce, loyal friend taking up the ancient sword once wielded by some long-forgotten ancestor and threatening the raiders with it.

She stepped away from the ladder, knowing she should be making her way to the hidden alcove her grandparents had put into place years before Molly's parents had been born, the one that was so cunningly hidden that even a raider with the eye of an eagle would be hard-pressed to find, but couldn't make herself move. She needed to hear, to know that Mary was all right; she burned with guilt, but the bundle in her arms was more precious than her own life or Mary's - and her friend agreed wholeheartedly.

A shout, the clang of steel on steel - Mary was an expert swordswoman, a secret only Molly and her father had been privy to until now - and Molly shivered as she fretted over her friend's fate. Would she be slain, or carried off to slavery? Neither fate was one Molly would wish on her worst enemy, let alone her best friend!

Just as she was about to finally make her way to the concealed alcove, an angry male voice froze her in her tracks. "By the Gods, woman, will you stop attacking me and listen? I'm looking for Molly, the beekeeper's daughter! I have to know she's safe or Sherlock will have my head!"

She didn't recognize the voice, but her heart leapt as she realized who it must be. "Johann!" she cried out, groping her way to the ladder. "Down here! Mary, it's all right, let me out!"

She blinked in the sudden light as the heavy wooden trapdoor was lifted - not by Mary, who was standing on the other side, glowering down at her, but by Johann, the Viking who'd come to warn Sherlock that they'd been discovered a year earlier. He looked much the same, with his striking blue eyes and golden braids and moustache, but his expression was grim. "Come on, Molly," he urged her. "We can't save everyone from this raid, but Sherlock says you know the forests well, you and your friend can hide there until…" He fell silent as she ascended the ladder, using one hand to steady herself, and she blushed as she realized it was the sight of the bundle cradled in one arm that had stolen his ability to speak. "Is that…"

She nodded, giving her sleeping son a tender smile. "His name is Einar."

Einar. The name meant _one who fights alone_. A good choice for a half-Norse baby in a Gaelic settlement; Johann approved. However, this complicated matters; two women could manage in the forest long enough to find their way to the nearest settlement, but two women and a baby? With Magnussen no doubt plotting to raid more than just this one village? Their chances were slim at best, even with Molly's fierce golden-haired protector by her side. A woman Johann would very much like to get to know better. Decision made, he lowered his sword. "You'll have to let me tie you up. Sherlock and I can claim you as our share of the spoils."

Mary's eyes flashed angrily, and she hefted her sword in threatening manner. "Over my dead body! You'll let us go or you'll - "

Molly put a placating hand on her friend's wrist. "Please, Mary. If it means I can be with Sherlock, that he'll claim his son - will he?" she asked Johann, suddenly uncertain. "Or should we take our chances in the forest?"

"Molly, believe me, Sherlock would fight Odin himself to keep you safe. He was furious when Magnussen brought us here. Just let me take you to the longboat; you have my oath that you'll be protected from harm until Sherlock comes for you. Your friend can go if she wants, I have no doubt she can protect herself!" He gave the golden haired Valkyrie an admiring glance; she tossed her head and put her nose in the air, but he thought he caught a glint of interest in her blue eyes as she turned away from him.

Moments later the two women were tethered together, their wrists loosely bound while John tugged them along behind them. He held Sherlock's infant son in his arms; the boy was sleeping but became restless as the sounds of the dying battle assaulted their ears. His hair was a soft fuzzy black and would doubtless become a mess of curls much like his father's, and in better light Johann wondered if his eyes were the same blue-green or brown as his mother's. Ah, something to look forward to. He had both his own sword and Mary's belted at his waist, and his 'captives' could easily free themselves if any of his fellow Vikings were so infused with battle lust that they decided to challenge him for his prizes. Luckily no such challenges emerged; they made it to the longboat with ease.

They didn't have long to wait before Sherlock came running up to join them. "Magnussen's put the men to the sword," he said grimly. "If Mycroft doesn't challenge that bas…" He fell silent as he realized Johann had not one but two women standing next to him...and was holding a squirming bundle in his arms.

Sherlock took a tentative step forward as the bundle made a noise much like that of a cooing pigeon. "Is that…"

"Your son." Molly's voice was quiet but strong, no sounds of tears or hysteria. Unsurprising. "I've named him Einar."

Sherlock responded, not with words, but by reaching out and allowing Johann to carefully lay the small bundle into his waiting arms. He cradled the infant to his chest, gazing down in wonder at the small face staring up at him. When he could tear his eyes away, he looked over at Molly. "I would have come for you, if I'd known."

She nodded, gave him a sad smile. "I know. Johann says you can claim Mary and I as your prizes, will your chieftain allow it?"

"If he doesn't I'll split his skull," Sherlock growled in response. "There's nothing I can do for the rest of your people, but Johann and I can make sure you three are kept safe." Under his breath, he added, "And now Mycroft really had better challenge that bastard for his position. Or else I will."

Johann raised an eyebrow at that; so, Sherlock had finally found a reason worthy of discarding his disdain for the burden of leadership! "When we're back home you'll have to show Molly your newest tattoo," he said casually, hiding a grin behind the drooping ends of his moustache. "It's over his heart," he added helpfully as Molly gave him a puzzled look and Sherlock glowered at him.

"Skógarhunang," he said briefly, feeling a faint flush of red coloring his cheeks. "It means…"

"Wild honey," Molly translated softly. She'd worked herself free of the ropes and allowed them to drop to her feet as she approached him. Mary and Johann watched as she reached up and touched a gentle hand to Sherlock's cheek, then lowered it to rest over his heart. "I missed you too," she whispered, then tiptoed up to place a soft kiss to his lips.

The future was still uncertain: there was Magnussen to contend with, and the possibility that the burden of leadership Sherlock had long avoided might land squarely on his shoulders, but with Molly by his side and Einar to love and protect, he was confident that all challenges would be met - and conquered.

* * *

 _A/N: So there it is, folks, the final chapter. Well, except for the bonus jollock alternate to chapter 2 I promised to write, but if that's not your thing then this is The End. Thanks for reading and following and reviewing!_


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